our first photo was taken
sometime in nineteen ninety-three.
two toddlers in nappies,
neighbours, before we had a word
for what we’d grow to be.
inseparable.
weekend mornings started
at six a.m. beneath blankets.
eyes heavy, pyjamas warm
with your brothers half-asleep,
watching cartoons in the dark –
argai, the lion prince
and some other world
that promised we’d never grow up.
half a life was spent
with football, martial arts,
scavenging, and video games.
but a universe opened between us
when you moved away –
only a few streets down,
where the brink of manhood
said, no girls allowed –
unless.
so i went on
carrying your absence.
years later, our parents
arranged a movie afternoon.
it was a hundred minutes of silence
and small flickers of a conversation
that mirrored who we used to be.
i thought, maybe.
i thought, still.
but the closure i sought
was a door shut in my face.
as if fifteen years
of childhood were a secret shame.
it still hurts
to dream you colder
than you already were,
and carry a reminder
that you don’t have a say
in when and how things end.
this one is about the inevitability of growing up, and growing apart.
August 20, 2025
